


Mouth, Full

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Food, Hand Feeding, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Luxury, M/M, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7417126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull introduces Cullen to the idea that taking pleasure in the experience of little things is beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth, Full

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Six_Lily_Petals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Lily_Petals/gifts).



> Thank you kindly, six. I totally just ripped off your wording for the summary, because I literally could NOT think of anything better. Also,I think this story has officially ruined fruit for me. IN THE BEST WAY. (No really though, that was a delightful prompt you gave me, and I really appreciate it - hope you enjoy the story!)

Cullen cannot fathom it.  He breathes through his nose, slowly, moving backward within his own mind to a point where he can give himself up to the moment.  He wants this, wants it with all of himself, and yet he does not understand it.  He breathes again, in, out, and slowly, he opens his mouth.

 

How did they come to this?  At first it had been only reckless impulse which had him knocking on Bull’s door late one evening, praying he would be out or otherwise occupied.  That night everything had been still, perfect.  The moonlight was thick, making the remnants of the late snowfall shine like so many castaway diamonds.  He remembers his breath hanging in the chill air, blindly walking forward, to where, he did not know.  All he knew was that to stay in his office - chilly, dull, lonely, the stub of the candle almost burnt out, shivering in his cloak as the heel of dry bread grew stale beside him - was suddenly untenable.  And so he had gone out, been driven out really, by a desperation he could not name.  In any case, for all his mumbled prayers, Andraste had not listened that night.  Perhaps it had been part of the Maker’s plan; perhaps only blind chance and circumstance.  Because Bull had opened the door, taken one look at him and placed a hand on his shoulder, smiled slightly and told him, “Come in.”

 

So he had.  The room was warm, and luxuriously appointed.  Cullen had stared about himself, wondering at the tiny glass bottles which refract the light in rainbows on the little shelf; the dusky pink of the velvet draperies of the bed; the smell of spices and sandalwood and other, sweeter scents which Cullen could not name.  It was, it is, so much in opposition to his own rather austere suite of rooms that he could not contain his shock.  “I…” he had begun, and stumbled to silence.  The Iron Bull had allowed it for a moment, and then gestured to the bed.

“Cullen,” he had said, and his voice had been rich with timbre, though his tone brooked no argument, “Take a seat.”

And Cullen had sat heavily, perching himself on the end of the bed, without thinking about it.  That tone in Bull’s voice, jewel-bright, diamond-hard; the relief he’d felt at it.  It must have shown in his face, because the Iron Bull had smiled gently and said without preamble, “You’re not here to fuck.”

 

Cullen had shaken his head,  _ no _ .  He felt heavy, strange in the somnolent air of the Iron Bull’s room.  And it was all so… so  _ beautiful _ .  The smells, the textures, all new, all fascinating to Cullen.  It reminded him a little of a Chantry, but… sensual.  Worshipful.  He had opened his mouth then, and said the first thing that had come into his head: “Bull..?  What’s… what are those?”

The Iron Bull had glanced over at the low table next to the plush armchair, and rumbled laughter.  “Those?  They’re bananas.  You never had one before?”

Cullen looks dubiously at the yellow crescents.  “Had one… for what?  Is this…”

“No,” Bull laughs again, and picks up a banana, begins to peel it as Cullen watches intently, “They’re for eating.  I mean, I guess you could do other things with them, but I’d rather eat ‘em.  They’re a fruit.  Here,” he had broken off a piece at the end of the soft, fleshy looking centre which he had exposed, and said, “Try some.”

 

But when Cullen had put out his hand, the Iron Bull had cocked his head.  “Yeah,” he had said thoughtfully, “We could do it that way.  Or…”  Cullen had felt his heart flutter, and his mouth had begun watering.  His lips had parted, but instead of asking the question that was on his tongue, he had kept opening his mouth, lips, teeth, tongue exposed, open.  He had felt a quiver within, an innate thrill at the subjugation inherent in the gesture, and then the sweet soft fruit was in his mouth, and Bull had told him softly, “See what you think.”

 

Cullen had closed his mouth again, chewed slowly, swallowed.  The sweet, strange taste of the banana had filled his mouth, his nose - pungent, almost over-ripe, fat with creamy texture, luscious, slippery almost.  He had smiled a little when he’d finished it, aware of Bull watching him and summoned all his mental resources to ask, “More?  Please?”

The Iron Bull had narrowed his one eye for a moment, and smiled.  The way he’d held the fruit so gently, the yellow outer skin contrasting vibrantly with the grey of his skin… it had seemed as if everything was conspiring to allure Cullen in this room, this sanctuary that the Iron Bull had created.  His heart was still hammering, and he felt almost for a moment as if Bull would refuse him, but no, a piece was between his fingers, and Cullen opened his mouth again, greedy for the morsel, for the luxury of being fed, attended to in this way.  But then, Bull had paused, the banana so close to Cullen’s mouth he could smell it, and told him, “But after this, we have to talk.  You don’t wanna talk, no problem, but you can get your own damn bananas.  Nod if you agree.”

 

Two quick, emphatic nods, and the banana is in his mouth.  As Cullen chewed and swallowed once again, he recognises his own hunger - hunger for indulgence, for intimacy, for something which he had not been prepared to name.

 

And now, even as he clears his mind, bound at wrist and ankle by the blue silk bindings, he cannot describe the feeling that he gets here apart from it being akin to _ hunger. _  His heart beats harder; his breathing is deep, restful.  He does not speak - for the most part is unable to.  He is… almost unwilling to analyze this feeling too deeply, for fear that it will be tainted by guilt or shame.  He watches, almost outside himself, as the Iron Bull cups the halved fruit in one huge hand and tells him, “Pomegranate.  Smell.”

  
Cullen does as he’s told, leaning closer, straining against the bonds.  The bright red juice rolls down the surface of the fruit, where the ruby seeds are exposed.  Cullen inhales; the smell is bright, brittle, like the skin of a lemon but deeper somehow, an echo of sweetness to it.  He watches a drop of the juice moves down the tip of the Iron Bull’s finger - as it crests the edge of his nail and lands with a wet  _ plop! _ on Cullen’s naked thigh.  And Cullen sighs, delighted, as Bull steps aside slightly, exposing the low table arranged with wonderful things; a pretty bottle, half full of what looks like wine - red berries, clustered together on a narrow, curling, bright green vine - pale gold spun sugar shapes - thickened cream.  The Iron Bull looks at Cullen for a moment more, smiling slightly as he puts the halved pomegranate back into the arrangement.  And before he loses himself entirely to the pleasures which the evening will show him, Cullen meets his eye and wordlessly opens his mouth.


End file.
